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Thursday, September 3, 2015

Indifference is the ghost beneath my bed,
the bush where tinsel ghosts congregate,
trolls that wish to party and dismember me,
to scatter the pieces of my body
around the Mediterranean -(Venice of the soul, as we sink into a sea;great Doges of our madness!) –
like the alabaster torso of Osiris
washed up from Syria
and Beirut,
drowned upon the shore,
where we Instagram
and soon forget
th’indifference what drove us mad.

--
written 09/03/2015 on hearing of the death of Aylan Kurdi of Syria.

Muses of old age cough...
idyllic pleasures culminate,
into idle agrimonies for pain:
will-o-the-whisp dreams,
hawthorn days,
finger-apple cancer,
chafeweed elbows and joints,
so take sprigs of rosemary
to the closets and the library
to avert the moths of time...

in shivering frost
and a coldness that cloys
like sugar on tooth decay...
no hearth